The Library of Fates(14)

Nobody knew who had built the Temple of Rain, how long it had existed before us, or even why it had been built.

Once I had asked Shree about it, and she simply shrugged her shoulders. “The Ancients,” she had responded. “They must have known what they were doing. But I certainly don’t.”

In the current dry season, the Temple of Rain was a stony subterranean maze, filled with elaborately carved pillars, doors that led down twisting hallways, some that wound themselves in dizzying circles around the structure, others that dead-ended into walls.

There was folklore that the Temple was haunted by vetalas, immortal spirits who could enter and inhabit anyone’s body. It was believed that vetalas roamed the Earth freely for many years, inhabiting the bodies of humans after they died. Vetalas had all sorts of powers. Some of them could fly. Others had the ability to heal any wound. They were known for their trickery and brilliance, and also their loyalty and their beauty. But humans were mistrustful of vetalas and had wiped them out. Even so, some people, like Mala, believed that vetalas still existed, that they hid among us, pretending to be human.

“They’re the most loyal creatures; they’d do anything for those they care for,” Mala once told me.

“Except they don’t really exist,” I said to her, and she raised an eyebrow.

“They exist for anyone who believes in them. And you’d best not be creeping around dark places at night if you never want to encounter one.”

But we didn’t listen to her, Arjun and I. When we were younger, in the dry months we played hide-and-seek in the Temple of Rain. There were endless places to hide. Even now, I didn’t know where all the pathways and corridors led.

But when it rained, the entire stepwell—doors, stone rooms, pillars, and all—disappeared into a cistern, filling to capacity and submerging the Temple.

Thala was running her hands over the ornate columns and eroded reliefs, and even in the dark, I sensed curiosity in her eyes.

“We don’t know who built this, or why. Many of the carvings on the walls . . . they’ve been eroded in the rains or defaced.”

We arrived at a cell, and I asked the guards to leave us. They handed me the key, bowed, and took leave, placing a lantern at my feet so that I could safely return back to the palace. I hated that I had brought her here, to a dark, enclosed space, but it was the only place I would be able to speak to her alone that wouldn’t raise suspicion. When I turned to look at her, she didn’t seem surprised that I had stayed behind. I wondered if she knew what I wanted to ask her.

In the cell was a basin of water, a tumbler, a blanket, and another lantern.

I dipped the tumbler into the water and handed it to her. She slurped at it, thirstily, downing the entire thing, coughing violently before handing it back to me. I refilled it and placed it back in her hands.

Then, I tore a strip of fabric from the pallu of my sari and dabbed it into the water, reaching for her arm, making her flinch.

“It’s all right,” I told her as I began to clean her wounds. Her body tensed in fear. I knew I had to distract her, calm her. It was dark, but I could make out a relief of a giant face on the wall. I pointed to it.

“My friend and I . . . we’re always speculating about this place . . . Maybe it was a place of worship? Or a refuge? It could have been a prison. Or a subterranean city.”

“Why would anyone bother to beautify a prison?” she whispered in Shalingarsh.

It took me a second to make sense of what she had said. In the distance, I could hear the sound of insects chirping, and then their echoes. I took a deep breath, swallowing my shock. I placed my hand on the curved wall of stone beside me.

“You speak . . . my language?” I asked.

“I speak many languages,” she whispered. “Once upon a time, I was a person. Just like you.”

“You are a person,” I quickly responded. I looked up from her cuts and saw her face, illuminated in the lamplight. She was partially obscured by the shadows of iron bars in the door to the cell, but despite those shadows, I could make out her features, delicate and fine-boned.

“It’s been a long time since I was treated like one,” she said, watching as I cleaned the cuts on her ankles.

I thought about the chains and the ropes again. The scabbed cuts and burns on her arms. I thought about her trapped in that box. How long had she been in there? Just the thought of it made it hard for me to breathe.

“Why are you here?” I asked her.

“Because they brought me.”

“No.” I shook my head. I wasn’t even sure I believed in oracles, but I did know that offering Thala as a gift was a strategic move on Sikander’s part, maybe even a trick. He knew my father and I—our entire kingdom—abhorred slavery. He understood how much it would disturb us to see a small girl in a box, chained and beaten. But he still brought her to us. Why? Was my father right about it being a threat? Or was there something else? Something we didn’t yet know?

“You must know why you’re here,” I said to her.

But she ignored my question. “You have to help me,” she whispered. Her voice shook, but I could hear the determination in it. Slowly, carefully, she reached for me with her free hand, touching my shoulder. “They keep me chained day and night. I must return home.”

I nodded. “I’ll do anything I can to help you,” I promised her, and I knew I would. That I had to.